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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27064195">A river that winds on forever</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/handfuloftime/pseuds/handfuloftime'>handfuloftime</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Terror (TV 2018)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Background James/Anne, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Gratuitous flashbacks, M/M, Make James Clark Ross Take a Nap 2k20, Pre-Canon, Sharing a Bed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 21:46:38</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,188</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27064195</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/handfuloftime/pseuds/handfuloftime</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The Antarctic expedition, battered after a difficult season in the ice, arrives at the Falkland Islands in April 1842. There they find that various essentials are in short supply. Such as fresh vegetables, and news from home. And beds.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Captain Francis Crozier/Sir James Clark Ross</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>26</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>A river that winds on forever</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/annecoulmanross/gifts">annecoulmanross</a>.</li>



    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <b>I.</b>
  </p>
</div><br/>Francis turns his coat collar up against the wind, and squints through the haze of drizzle that blurs grey earth and grey sky together. Berkeley Sound is a slightly paler shade, far off and bordered by darker clouds that threaten worse weather to come, and the two battered ships anchored there are all but invisible. In the foreground the dim browns and blues of damp wood and damp jackets provide the only contrasting color: the skeleton frame of the magnetic observatory, and the swarm of men working on it. Francis’s eyes pick out the small figure at the center of the activity—flitting restlessly from spot to spot, never still.<p>“Sir?” McMurdo’s voice drags Francis’s attention away from the construction. Under his cap, the lieutenant’s face is shockingly pale, and Francis isn’t sure whether the moisture beading on his forehead is rain or perspiration. “The hunting party is back.” </p><p>“Any luck?” Francis asks absently, watching James gesture emphatically at a broad outline that’s probably <i>Terror</i>’s carpenter. </p><p>“Two bullocks. And Farr turned his ankle, Dr. Robertson is looking after him.” </p><p>“Very good. One to each ship, then.” McMurdo salutes and turns away—a sluggish, painful motion. “And get out of the rain!” Francis calls after him.</p><p>He frowns as McMurdo limps away through the scrubby grass. Impossible to justify keeping him off the sick list, in this condition, and if Robertson and McCormick haven’t been able to do anything for him then the glorified butcher that passes for the colony’s doctor won’t have a chance. And Francis will have to lean even harder on Phillips and Moore, both of them already run ragged by two long seasons in the ice. </p><p>And they’re hardly the only ones wearing down. He stuffs his hands into his pockets and glances back to the observatory: two of the walls are up now, and a third is underway. A shout echoes back through the rain as one of the beams slips.</p><p>A million things to take care of, still, and no time for morbid thoughts. Francis turns his back on the construction and sets off for the cove instead. On the walk down, he passes Dr. Hooker, who’s in raptures over a specimen of <i>Ramalina</i>. Some small comfort, Francis thinks with tired humor: a pile of inhospitable rock with nothing in the way of fresh vegetables or letters from home, but at least the lichens are acceptable. </p><p>Down on the beach, he can just make out the silhouettes of the ships where they’re moored in the sound. <i>Erebus</i> is a little closer; the ruined copper around her bows like torn paper, her jury-rigged bowsprit an unsightly thing. Farther out, <i>Terror</i> is just a smudge behind the grey veils of rain; if he got out his glass, he’d see her decks crawling with activity, shifting stores and getting out the kedges under Phillips’s steady, weary supervision. </p><p>One of the boats has pushed off again, conveying the meager provisions the islands have to offer out to the ships. Fresh beef, anyways—a change from the wooden stuff they’ve been eating. The others are drawn up on the beach, with men busy unloading them: the remaining pieces of the observatory, spare spars, boxes of instruments. Sacks of flour, since they’ve had the good fortune to drop anchor at a place that can’t even make its own bread. “Steady now,” Francis barks as a seaman fumbles an anemometer. </p><p>When he glances back over his shoulder, he sees nothing but fog and rain. Anxiety flutters in his throat, just for an instant. But he forces it down and concentrates on getting the chaotic unloading process into some kind of order. An hour or so later, when the boats are on their way back to the ships and tarps have been spread over the cases against the weather, sheer weariness has worn the worry down to almost nothing. He drags himself back up the hill to the observatory site on leaden feet.</p><p>James meets him halfway. “We’ll not get any more done today,” he calls almost before Francis is within speaking distance, his voice tight with frustration. “This foul weather, and the light’s starting to go…” The dim light obscures his expression; Francis reads his exhaustion in the slump of his shoulders. “It won’t be up before Monday, at this rate.” </p><p>“There’s time,” Francis says. He thinks of adding: <i>James, please. Rest.</i> Or: <i>You can’t drive everyone else as hard as you drive yourself.</i> But he doesn’t have the capacity for an argument now, so he merely says, “We’ve done more today than I’d hoped.”</p><p>“Mmm.” James has mislaid his hat somewhere, and the rain has pasted a stray curl of hair across his forehead. Up close, his eyes are stormy. “And where have you been? You gave me a damned start, disappearing like that.”</p><p>“Seeing to the rest of the unloading,” Francis says. It comes out a bit more sharply than he’d intended. “The instruments are all ashore, since you didn’t ask.”</p><p>They glower at each other for a minute, then James says, “Oh, hell,” and pushes his hair out of his face, scattering raindrops. “Didn’t mean to snap, old man.” He grimaces and adds, “I’m in fine form for supper with the governor, clearly.”</p><p><i>Hell</i>, it’s Francis’s turn to think. He has nothing against Lieutenant Moody, and the prospect of eating a real supper rather than salt meat that’s been to the Antarctic and back twice has its attractions. But he’s weary to the bone and his hat is dripping rain down the back of his neck and right now an evening of polite conversation pales in comparison with the thought of dropping exhausted into his bed with the rest of a bottle of whiskey for company. </p><p>“You hadn’t forgotten, had you?” And there’s a hint of James’s smile, like a ray of sunlight slipping through the clouds. “Honestly, Frank. I can’t take you anywhere.” </p><p>Francis grumbles at him good-naturedly, and lets James take his arm, and as they walk the short distance to the handful of houses that calls itself a town, that small glimpse of a smile warms him against the chilling rain.</p>
<hr/><p>They're a sad little band for supper. Moody, the governor, and Robinson, his secretary; Francis and James; Dr. Hooker as a scientific curiosity. At least the governor isn’t scandalized at Francis and James’s frayed, salt-stained undress coats—indeed, anything fancier would have stood out alarmingly in the cramped, hastily furnished dining room. The bare hill that Government House sits on offers no protection from the elements: wind rattles the windowpanes and hisses through the gaps in the frames.</p><p>A far cry from the warmth and joviality of Van Diemen’s Land, but the governor—a slight young man with no chin, young enough to make Francis feel ancient—labors to keep the conversation going steadily. Over duck and turnips, they talk of cattle hunting on the islands, Moody’s plans for introducing sheep farming, HMS <i>Beagle</i>’s visit years ago. </p><p>The turnips are small and overcooked, but they’re a blessed change from dried peas and ancient potatoes. Across the table from Francis, Hooker has cleaned his plate twice and is casting covetous eyes towards Robinson’s barely-touched leg of duck; he’s hardly said a word all evening.</p><p>Rain spatters against the windows; the building’s timbers creak like a ship in a storm. “Not the most hospitable time to visit out islands, I’m afraid,” Moody says. “But I’m sure you faced much worse down in the south, gentlemen.”</p><p>James sets his glass down before answering. “Of course,” he says, and only Francis hears the hollowness under his agreeable tone. An involuntary flinch of memory: the gale in the pack, the ships tossed about like toys among the bergs. “But hardly something to be daunted by.”</p><p>“Hear, hear,” Moody replies, raising his own glass.</p><p>So, naturally, the conversation turns to the Antarctic. “One hears so <i>little</i> of your expedition, compared to the French or the Americans,” Robinson says, earning himself a glare from James, whose usual charm is starting to wear thin. Hooker, who had started to say something, visibly reconsiders and goes back to his food. </p><p>James talks, and Francis picks at the remnants of his supper and contributes a remark here and there. Once James has firmly dismissed both the French and the Americans, it’s the highlights, such as he might give to a newspaper: magnetism, wonderful discoveries, scientific enterprise. Penguins. Francis’s eyes catch on the cut over James’s right eye, which gives him a rakish look now that it’s mostly healed. No mention of that in James’s story, and neither Robinson nor Moody enquires as to how their ships were reduced to such a shattered state.</p><p>“And you’ll be going back again?” Robinson asks.</p><p>“Naturally,” James says. “There’s still so much to be done.” Francis echoes him, but the thought of a third season in the ice sends fresh exhaustion washing over him. They’re poor wrecks of themselves already—what will a third year do to them?</p><p>By the time the meal has been cleared away, James has to raise his voice to be heard over the sound of the wind outside. As Francis pours himself another drink, the windows’ rattling drowns out the decanter’s. One of the windows bursts open, hitting the wall hard enough to smash a pane and letting a blast of rain and sleet into the room. Hooker doesn’t quite duck out of the way fast enough, and mops water off his jacket with a wince.</p><p>“It’s blowing a gale out there,” Moody says, quite unnecessarily, as Robinson struggles to close the window. Sleet spits through the broken pane; a glob the size of a shilling lands on the carpet. “It’s hardly safe to cross the sound in this weather—let me put you up for the night.”</p><p>“We wouldn’t want to inconvenience you,” Francis says, thinking longingly of his cot on <i>Terror</i>. But he’s right; there’ll be no getting across the harbor in this mess.</p><p>Moody gives him an awkward smile. “The inconvenience would be to you, I’m afraid—we’re hardly prepared for guests, here.”</p><p>“Oh, well,” James waves a hand airily. “We’ve slept in worse places than this, I can assure you.”</p><p>True enough; still, it’s hardly a comfortable arrangement. Moody offers James and Francis the one spare room, while Hooker has to settle for the governor’s library. “There’s a relatively comfortable chair?” Moody tells him, remorsefully.</p><p>“As long as there’s a lamp,” Hooker replies, taking pity on him. “I've plenty of sketching to do.” </p><p>There’s a lamp for Francis and James as well, illuminating the tiny spare room. Windowless, which is almost a relief considering how the storm still shrieks, and clammy with the island’s damp cold. Barely enough room for both the little writing desk and the single bed with its musty-looking gingham quilt; the shabby rug has been folded back over itself to make it fit. It smells of damp and plaster.</p><p>James sets the lamp on the desk, then flops down on the bed in order to take off his boots. Francis hovers by the door, grown unaccountably shy. </p><p>It’s not as though they haven’t shared before. Huddled together in snow-houses on long treks in the Arctic; the night that Mr. Midshipman Ross drank too much of Parry’s sherry after a boisterous performance of <i>The Way to Keep Him</i> and passed clean out across Francis in their berth on <i>Fury</i>; the long way back up Lancaster Sound and across the Atlantic after the wreck of <i>Fury</i>, with two crews crammed into one ship.</p><p>But not recently. Not a real bed, without the demands of science or the exigencies of the service to justify bundling together into a bunk or a pile of blankets.</p><p> “Penny for them, old man,” James says, leaning back on his elbows and looking up at him.</p><p>“Remembering the old <i>Hecla</i>,” Francis says eventually. It’s not a lie, exactly. “Having to double up on the way home.”</p><p>James grins at the memory. “Of course. As I recall, you turned me out after a week in favor of Bird.”</p><p>“Ned kept his elbows to himself,” Francis retorts, halfheartedly. </p><p>“A true gentleman,” James says. “Well, I shall try my best.” He gets up again to take off his jacket and waistcoat, then shuffles over to the desk in his stocking feet and tosses them carelessly onto the little chair. He undoes his cravat as well and adds it to the pile, and as he turns back, Francis’s eyes go to his open collar and the line of his throat.</p><p>He wrenches his gaze away, not quite quickly enough. Tries to focus on James’s face, though that’s hardly safer. He directs his eyes over James’s shoulder instead, at a patch on the whitewashed wall that could be spreading damp or just an odd shadow. In the dim lamplight, hopefully James won’t see how his face has reddened. And perhaps he doesn’t, for he settles into the bed without comment and pulls the quilt up to his chest. </p><p>There’s a pause, and Francis realizes he’s been standing still for too long, saying too little. James frowns slightly. “Going to stand there all night, Frank?”</p><p>“No, no…” He kicks his boots into the corner and, following James’s lead, sheds jacket and waistcoat and cravat. Folds them and sets them neatly on the desk. When he blows out the candle, the darkness is a blessed relief: he doesn’t have to worry about hiding his face. He settles on the edge of the bed and, very cautiously, eases under the quilt. He’s crossed rotten ice with less care.</p><p>“’Night, Frank,” James mumbles, sounding half asleep already. Francis envies him.</p><p>“Good night,” he manages, and closes his eyes even though he knows there’s no rest waiting for him there. The wind howls.</p><p>Despite the quilt, the bed is cold, and dust tickles Francis’s nose. Mercifully, it’s just wide enough that they’re not crammed together; Francis stays perched on the edge, trying to keep a bit of space between them. He’ll probably fall out in the middle of the night, with his luck, but it’s better than the alternative.</p><p>His skin burns with how close James is: even asleep, his presence pulls at Francis like magnetism, like gravity, like the moon on the tides. It would be so easy just to give in to it, to curl up around him and bury his face in his hair, like he’s wanted to for so long. Hold him close, feel him warm and breathing and safe, not crushed to atoms or drowned in the wild sea. </p><p><i>Amiable weakness</i>, Francis thinks, not for the first time. But he can’t put it aside so easily, not now. When he’d met James again after his uncle’s expedition, at least then he’d had months of letters to prepare him for the shock of seeing James alive and well, returned from the dead. Now, though, the ache in his chest won’t fade. A crack in the ice, forced wide by the terrors of the last few weeks. A wanting that frightens him with its intensity.</p><p>Reflexively, his mind returns to the aftermath of the ships’ collision. Finding James in <i>Erebus</i>’s great cabin, pale and with blood all down one side of his face from the ugly gash over his eye; crushing him into a hug, not trusting himself to speak. James wrapping his arms around him like he’s trying to pull Francis inside his own skin, his words tripping over each other: “I thought you were— Good Christ, Francis, I thought we’d—” Never managing a complete sentence, but Francis knew how they would end, because the same thoughts were still swarming through his mind: <i>I thought you were dead. I thought we’d sunk you.</i> Clinging to James, breathing unsteadily against his damp hair, running his thumb over James’s bloody cheekbone. </p><p>James stirs in his sleep, one elbow brushing Francis’s arm. Francis shies away, and winces as the bed creaks at his movement. He breathes out slowly and deliberately, trying to settle his soft, foolish heart. It’s just one night; if James is so unbothered by the close quarters, then Francis can feign the same.</p><p>If he’s lucky, sleep will come for him eventually.<br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <b>II.</b>
  </p>
</div><br/>When James wakes, he notices two things. First, the noise of the storm hasn’t ebbed, a constant roar of wind that makes him wonder if he only dropped off for an hour or two. Second, at some point during this indeterminate period of sleep, he’s rolled over into Frank and flung an arm across his chest, and his forehead is developing a divot where it presses against Frank’s shoulder. The scabbed-over cut on his brow aches dully.<p>Really, he ought to do something about this. And he will. In a minute. But it’s hard to summon the will to move when he could just lie here beside Francis, feeling his chest rise and fall beneath James’s arm as he breathes. </p><p>The room is cold, and Frank is very warm.</p><p>Below the elbow, his arm is numb and weightless with sleep; he flexes his fingers, feeling the numbness gradually change to pins and needles. He tries to move without jostling Francis, but he must not quite have managed it; Francis mumbles something and turns under James’s arm. Turns towards him, until their faces are close enough that James can feel Francis’s breath hot against his cheek. His own breath catches, just for an instant.</p><p>And that must be the point at which Francis wakes up, because he recoils backwards like he’s been repelled by a magnet—recoils so far, in fact, that he topples over the edge of the bed. There’s a loud, painful thud, followed by a growled curse. </p><p>“All right there, old man?” James asks, trying not to feel hurt.</p><p>More growling is his only answer, followed by some indistinct noises that, when a candle flickers to life, prove to have been Francis getting up and lighting the lamp.</p><p>“What time is it?” Francis mutters, scrubbing a hand across his face. His hair is sticking up in all directions. It’s charming. James wants to run his fingers through it.</p><p>Now is <i>not</i> the time.</p><p>“Sounds like a bloody hurricane out there,” Francis is saying. He paws through his jacket until he finds his watch. “Seven minutes past ten.”</p><p>“In the <i>morning</i>?” Good Lord, how long had they slept? James presses the heels of his hands against his eyes, trying to rub the lingering gritty tiredness away. Half of him wants to slump back down and sleep for another twelve hours, preferably with Francis tucked comfortably beside him, but there’s no going back to that pleasant state now. He can’t suppress a sigh as he sits up. “I suppose coffee is an unheard-of luxury on this rock.”</p>
<hr/><p>Coffee is, indeed, too much to ask for. Over a cup of tea that tastes like it’s been swept up off the floor, James contemplates the view from the dining room windows. Or rather the lack of a view, because the sky is so dark that it might as well be night, and rain runs in rivers down the glass. They’ll have to wait until this blows over before they can get back to work on the observatory, provided the storm hasn’t wrecked everything they’ve done so far.</p><p>He picks up his cup, finds that it’s empty, sets it down again. Pokes at the remains of the watery kedgeree. Checks his watch: almost eleven, the day slipping away. Glances at the windows again.</p><p>“Well,” he says into the silence, “No chance of taking observations this morning, I suppose. But the barometric and the…” He trails off; Francis, hunched over his own cup of tea, doesn’t seem to notice. He’s smoothed his hair flat again, and in the sallow glow of the lamplight the new streaks of gray are more noticeable.</p><p>“Francis,” James says, and Frank looks up. “Are you attending?”</p><p>He’s used to Francis’s moods, has a whole taxonomy of them by now, but this one is proving hard to categorize. </p><p>“Yes,” Francis says, as though he hadn’t obviously been miles away. James considers calling him on it, decides against it. Neither of them are their best selves this morning.</p><p>The teacup nearly slips from his fingers; he gets it back into its saucer with a clumsy movement. “Good. Fine.”</p><p>Despite the fire in the grate, it’s very cold.</p>
<hr/><p>A conversation with Moody—interrupted in the midst of work on a lengthy manuscript that, he proudly tells them, will be his first report to London—serves to employ the rest of the morning usefully, at least. But even after two hours of discussing logistics and charts and the settlement’s current circumstances, the storm hasn’t subsided in the slightest. </p><p>“Reminds me of Kerguelen Land,” James says, glancing out the window without halting his pacing. The rain and sleet have mostly turned to pure snow now, and the wind howls like it’s trying to push Government House into the sea. He thinks of the ships out in the sound, lashed by the storm. His poor <i>Erebus</i>, already fragile from all she’s suffered. Edward will have everything well in hand, no doubt, but James still hates being away from her.</p><p>“Hm,” Francis agrees. He’s slumped in a chair at the dining room table, frowning down at his clasped hands. </p><p>Waiting here idly is unpleasant enough, but Francis’s distracted silence is making it quite intolerable. “I’m going out to the point,” James decides.</p><p>That makes Francis look up. “You’re what?”</p><p>“I’ll check on the observatory, see if any of it’s still standing.”</p><p>“James, it’s a blizzard out there. If you hadn’t noticed.”</p><p>James shrugs, deliberately casual. “You don’t have to come with me.”</p><p>“I wasn’t planning to.” The stubborn set of Francis’s jaw is an improvement, at least. This is a Frank he knows well. “You’ll catch your death, if the wind doesn’t blow you straight into the sea, first.”  </p><p>“I need to see how much needs to be redone, so I can plan the next few days’ work.”</p><p>Francis sighs. “Christ, James, take a day off. Rest.” </p><p>“You’re worse than Ned,” James says, nettled.</p><p>“Has it occurred to you that he might have a point?”</p><p>Rather than dignify that with a response, James goes in search of his coat. Which has the added benefit of letting him avoid the look that Francis is giving him, a disapproving scowl that stings even though he’d expected nothing else.  </p><p>When he opens the door, the wind’s force rocks him back a step. James steps out into a howling whirlwind of sleet and snow and slams the door behind him, not quite fast enough to muffle Francis calling him an impossible stubborn bastard in a voice loud enough to carry to the governor’s office. Grimly, James sets off into the storm. </p><p>After a few steps, lights show dimly through the swirling snow: the rest of the town, huddled together in the French settlement’s ruins. He turns, wiping snow out of his eyes, and heads for the point. </p><p>At first the sheer relief of being outside, in motion, is enough to carry him swiftly through the storm. A bit of a hike to stretch his legs and clear his head: just what he needed. But before long the wind begins to bite through his coat, and by the third time he stumbles over uneven ground, he’s beginning to admit that Francis’s argument may not have been unreasonable. He digs a clump of wet snow out of his collar and keeps walking. He’s not about to turn back halfway.</p><p>The snow falls thick and fast. Certainly not the worst visibility he’s ever been out in, but it’s pretty bad. Keeping his eyes slitted against the stinging snow, he blunders up the hill in the general direction of the observatory. Hoping he finds it before he finds the cliffs.</p><p>The half-built observatory looms out of the snow like a sudden iceberg. James ducks inside to escape the wind, and is pleased to find that everything they’d put up yesterday is still standing. The carpenters have done their work well. He leans against one wall, recovering his breath and trying to work some feeling back into his hands. Looking out in the direction of the sound is useless: he can’t see three feet in front of him, let alone the ships at their distant anchorage. The lieutenants will be fine, he reminds himself—he’s fretting almost as much as Francis would.</p><p>And that, inevitably, drags his thoughts back to what he’s been trying to avoid. Francis asleep beside him; Francis flinching away from him in the dark. And the awkwardness between them all morning, not the companionable quiet that James is used to from Frank, but something splintery and perilous.</p><p>A line he ought not to have crossed. All the more painful because it had been unintentional—an accidental, instinctive closeness. Uncovering something he’d kept carefully buried.</p><p>James shakes his head, scattering snow. Casts about for something else to occupy his mind. But his thoughts settle thousands of miles from these wind-wracked cliffs: the gardens at Wadworth on a warm summer’s night, when he and Anne had snuck out to look at the stars after her aunt and uncle had gone to bed. Their conversation had wandered, inevitably, to the expedition: the southern constellations, then the ships, then poor anxious Francis supervising the preparations down at Chatham. And Anne had said, after a considering silence, “Have you told him?”</p><p><i>Told him what?</i> James almost asked, trying to recall if there was some instrument he’d forgotten to remind Francis to order, but then Anne squeezed his hand and he realized what she meant.</p><p>He’d been honest with her, during their too-brief stolen meetings: he owed her nothing less than the full truth, and he wouldn’t cheapen his feelings by understating them. So he’d explained it as plainly as he could: his heart was hers forever, but not hers alone. Anne and Francis: the two poles of his life. Two influences no less powerful for being so very different. </p><p>So, there in the garden, he turned the question over in his mind, weighing the arguments for and against, and arrived at the usual conclusion. Something he’d resigned himself to long ago. A regret soothed by the prospect of spending the rest of his life with Anne, in perfect harmony, after this last separation. “No,” he said, “not yet.”</p><p>“I’ve never know you to hesitate in matters of the heart,” Anne replied, dry, and James conceded the point with a laugh.</p><p>“Still,” he sighed, after his amusement faded, “and risk almost twenty years’ friendship? I’ll not lose him, Anne, not over this.”</p><p> “Do you really think it so unlikely? Your Francis has eyes, does he not?” </p><p>“Careful, dear girl, you’ll make me vain.” </p><p>And Anne kissed his forehead—light and quick, unobjectionable were her aunt to be looking out the window. “I want to know that you’re happy, dearest,” she said, very serious. “When you’re away in the south. And afterwards.”</p><p>“Just consider it, darling,” she added, cutting across his protest, and James dared the wrath of God and, more immediately, the Coulmans, and tipped his face up to hers to steal a kiss.</p><p>A gust of wind tosses snow into his face. James sweeps it away and pulls his coat tighter. Thinking with a stab of sudden, fruitless pain, of Anne’s letters—languishing in a mailbag in Rio, probably. Or sent to China again. He wants to hear from her: the pure, precious delight of her letters and the thought of the future to come. A course already mapped out, every step fondly dreamed of: no uncertainty there.  </p><p>Would that he felt that a similar confidence here. But there’s no point standing out here brooding until he gets frostbite. He stamps his cold feet, bracing himself for the long trudge back to Government House. Maybe the walk will be enough to settle his thoughts.</p>
<hr/><p>Back in the relative warmth of Government House, he finds Frank in the little library that evidently doubles as a storeroom, judging by the crates and trunks and odd bits of furniture crammed into the low room. He’s ensconced in an armchair, reading a book and apparently unbothered by Hooker whistling “Jock o’ Hazeldean” as he sketches a set of lichens. Francis still has the rumpled look of having slept in his clothes, and faint gingery stubble clings to his jaw. There are dark circles under his eyes: James wonders how much sleep he actually got.</p><p>“Captain Ross,” Hooker says, peering up owlishly from his work. Francis looks up as well, and raises an eyebrow.</p><p>“You look half dead, James.”</p><p>James brushes a bit more snow from his hair. “Observatory’s still up.” He can feel himself starting to shiver, and wishes he’d kept his coat on. “What’s that you’re reading, Frank?”</p><p>Francis lifts the thick volume. “Fitzroy. He doesn’t mention the awful weather, funnily enough.”</p><p>“How about our Dr. McCormick?” James asks. Hooker doesn’t quite manage to hide a snicker.</p><p>“Nothing so far,” Francis replies with a smile. A real smile, crinkling his eyes and showing the gap in his teeth. It’s all James can look at.</p><p>Is he staring? He’s staring. He’s tired, not that that’s an excuse. “Well,” he says slowly, “I’m going to get some rest.” Fighting his way through the snow has taken more out of him than he’d expected; he could cheerfully sleep for the rest of the day.</p><p><i>I’m getting too old for this,</i> he thinks—just for a second, before dismissing the thought as ridiculous. He’s tired, is all. </p><p>“Good,” Francis says, and leaves it at that, though <i>I told you so</i> is plainly written on his face. James rolls his eyes at him, bids Dr. Hooker a good afternoon, and leaves a trail of melting snow behind him when he goes.</p><p>Back in the tiny spare room, he wraps himself in the quilt and sinks into the bed like a stone into the sea, letting fatigue wash over him. The bed is wider without Francis in it, and colder. Lonelier, he thinks, a brief wistful pang as he drifts off to sleep. </p><p>His dreams are fragmented and frantic. An iceberg looming out of the night, a gale screaming down on them, waves as high as the main topsail yard. <i>Terror</i> in the distance, her rudder gone—</p><p>(No, they’d repaired—)</p><p>A heaving sea: sprays of water, splinters flying from the smashed boat. “Iceberg!” someone screams, in Angelly’s voice.</p><p>(But it can’t be Angelly, they never found Angelly’s body—)</p><p>(—that’s not—)</p><p>—and then the ships collide with a noise like the earth splitting open and everything dissolves in a confusion of screams and thunder and flying ice. His face is wet, he doesn’t know whether with blood or water, he can’t see—</p><p>(Is he blind—)</p><p>Darkness, and the sea boiling over the decks, and a cry from all sides: “Where’s <i>Terror</i>?”</p><p>He’s at the rail, looking in all directions, his one good eye straining through the night and the rough sea and the chain of bergs.</p><p>“Where’s <i>Terror</i>?”</p><p>Nothing.</p><p>(Gone.)</p><p>James wakes with a cry, shuddering and panicked. For a moment he hardly knows where he is—back on <i>Erebus</i>, maybe, or lost somewhere out on the ice—and he struggles upright, trying to get to his feet, to reach the quarterdeck, to let go the life-buoy, to—</p><p>But there’s a broad arm around him, holding him still, and a hand stroking his hair. “It’s all right, James.”</p><p>“Where—” James gasps.</p><p>“Shh, James dear.” That familiar voice, a comforting rasp. “It’s all right.”</p><p>James lets out a shaky breath, and clutches blindly at Francis’s jacket. He’s there. He’s alive.</p><p>He closes his eyes, pushes his face into Francis’s shoulder. Francis’s hand keeps moving over his hair, very gentle. He’s still talking: James can feel him more than hear him: the vibration his voice in his chest, a soothing murmur that slowly lulls James back into a dreamless sleep.<br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <b>III.</b>
  </p>
</div><br/>Francis wakes with James in his arms. He doesn’t remember falling asleep; he’s half-sitting, half-lying on the edge of the bed, still in his boots and uniform jacket. James is curled tightly against him, his face pressed against Francis’s shoulder and one hand fisted in the fabric of his jacket. He’s somehow worked his other hand between them and inside Francis’s jacket; Francis can feel the outline of his palm through his shirt, against his ribs. The careworn lines on his face have smoothed with sleep.<p>Despite the awkward tangle they’re in, this is nice. Too nice: Francis could get used to this, to feeling James a warm, heavy weight against him. Comfortable: the hard angles his uncle’s expedition had left him with have softened over the years. He fits snugly in Francis’s arms, like they’re made to suit each other.</p><p>Francis’s right hand is at the nape of James’s neck, in the loose tangle of his hair. He twirls a strand around his finger, remembering James’s pin curls at the New Year’s ball. A vision of loveliness: laughing eyes, a plush cascade of curls, that green dress. Too much to look at directly; like trying to look at the sun. Francis’s heart fluttering in his chest as they danced, his hands on James’s waist, and the bittersweet knowledge that this was all a harmless bit of New Year’s revelry. Make-believe. But it’s all he has. </p><p>James shifts slightly, burrowing deeper into Francis’s shoulder, and Francis feels an overwhelming rush of fondness. It seeps through him like icemelt, and he runs his hand over James’s hair one more time. So soft under his calloused hand. </p><p>He slips back into a contented doze, and is almost fully asleep again when James twitches and releases his grip on Francis’s jacket. “Francis?” he mumbles against his shoulder.</p><p>“Yes?” Francis says, suddenly very aware of his hand still resting on James’s hair, James’s weight across his chest. His heart beating under James’s palm. He moves his hand away, and shifts his other arm off James’s back.</p><p>James tries to sit up, which, with his legs wrapped in the quilt and one hand still inside Francis’s jacket, proves to be a complicated process. They disentangle from each other clumsily, without speaking. James clips Francis’s ribs with his elbow without noticing; there’s already a tender spot on Francis’s side from where he’d caught him earlier, in the throes of the nightmare. </p><p>Then they’re both upright, and Francis busies himself stretching his aching back and trying to straighten his crumpled coat so that he doesn’t have to meet James’s eyes.</p><p>“Frank,” James says. Francis, looking at his watch—they’ve slept most of the afternoon away—waits for the rest of the sentence, but it doesn’t arrive.</p><p>He risks a glance at James, sees that he’s putting his boots back on. His disheveled hair hangs in curtains around his face, hiding it.</p><p>“I—” Francis begins, fumbling for an explanation. <i>I don’t know how you put up with Hooker whistling all the time</i> is what he should say, the gradual irritant that had sent him creeping back here to read in peace and quiet. But it’s not the only reason. <i>I was worried</i> is bad, and <i>I don’t like you being out of sight</i> is worse, even if they’re both true. The constant pull towards James that has haunted him over the last few weeks, the need to know that he’s safe and close by. “I’m sorry,” he says, wretchedly.</p><p>James shakes his hair out of his face. “You have nothing to apologize for, Francis.” He sounds very tired.</p><p>He’s across the room and through the door before Francis can reply.</p>
<hr/><p>“I hope you haven’t been too bored,” Moody says at supper—a subdued affair, everyone weighed down by the knowledge that they’ll most likely be spending another night here. James has been talking gardening and the island’s prospects for cultivation with Hooker and Robinson with deliberate, forced cheer, but his eyes go to the windows almost as often as Francis’s do. Nothing out there but the blank hissing white of a blizzard; snow has forced its way under the door. “We’re poor hosts, I’m afraid.”</p><p>“Not at all,” James says, a little too late and a little too hearty to be genuine. </p><p>Something’s eating at him, and that sets Francis’s nerves on edge. As much as he’d like to convince himself that James is brooding over the storm or the ships’ situation or the wasted day, he fears that it’s…not that. </p><p>It’s hard for Francis to look at him without remembering the softness of his hair under his hand. His breath on Francis’s cheek in the dark: too close. Not close enough.</p><p>“Very kind of you to say so,” Moody says, not sounding particularly convinced.</p><p>They stay late at the table, somehow spinning the threadbare conversation out far longer than it deserves. Robinson excuses himself, citing the late hour and a burgeoning headache; Hooker slips away back to his specimens. Francis stares into his empty glass, listening to the wind more than to James and Moody discussing Moody’s work on the Ordnance Survey years ago.</p><p>He yawns, in spite of himself—he can’t possibly be tired, with all the sleep he’s gotten over the past day, but he can feel himself starting to nod off. James glances over at him. “Go and get some rest, Frank,” he says. “Don’t let us keep you up.”</p><p>It’s all but a dismissal, and it stings. But anything would be better than sitting here looking back and forth between James and the windows, feeling exhausted and trapped in equal measure. “Very well,” Francis says, low, and bids the governor a terse good night. He walks back to their room listening to the storm’s inexhaustible noise and hoping fervently that it will be gone by the morning. That they’ll be able to go back to their ships, get on with their work, rebury the emotions that the past few weeks have dragged into the light.</p><p>A vain hope, Francis thinks wearily. </p><p>Sleep comes slowly, and his dreams are jumbled and strange.</p>
<hr/><p>He wakes to flickering lamplight and the soft scratching of pen on paper. Something’s missing—the noise of the storm, he realizes. In the absence of the wind’s constant noise, the quiet is almost eerie. Like the world has shrunk to just this damp little room. He pushes himself up on his elbows, and sees James hunches over the little desk. His back is to Francis, but he’s clearly writing. </p><p>“What time is it?” Francis asks.</p><p>James’s shoulders stiffen. He consults his watch. “Ten to three.”</p><p>“Have you slept at all?” No answer. Which is, he thinks wearily, an answer in itself. “What are you working on?”</p><p>“Notes for Moody. On improvements to the harbor.”</p><p>“And it’s very important that these notes be written at three in the morning?” Silence, except for the sound of the pen. “Does Ned let you do this?” Francis sighs. “I’m going to have words with him when we get back. Come to bed.” </p><p>Those last words hang in the air, expanding until they’ve filled the room. </p><p>“…Or don’t,” Francis says, too late. “Write your notes. I don’t care. But you should rest.” </p><p>“I’ve had plenty of rest already, thanks,” James says dully. He keeps writing for a few more seconds and then, from the sound of it, throws his pen down. Drops his head into his hands.</p><p>“James?” Francis says, concerned.</p><p>A sigh, then, testily: “Yes?”</p><p>“Tell me what’s troubling you?” Not that he can’t guess. But he's too tired to keep avoiding it: he’d rather get it over with, have it out in the open. Anything to ease the oppressed misery he reads in James’s hunched posture.</p><p>“Is it that obvious?”</p><p>“Yes.” Maybe not to someone else. But Francis knows him.  </p><p>James twists around to look at him; clearly it’s an awkward angle, for he shifts from the chair to the foot of the bed. Plucks at the gingham quilt with restless hands. Francis pushes himself upright and swings his legs over the side of the bed, so that they’re sitting side by side. A careful space between them.</p><p>Still worrying the quilt between his fingers, James clears his throat but doesn’t speak. Francis waits.</p><p>What James does say, eventually, is, “I’m sorry about earlier.”</p><p>Not at all what Francis had been expecting. “What?”</p><p>“Oh, you know…” He gestures with one hand, but whatever it’s intended to convey, Francis can’t interpret it.</p><p>“It was the collision again,” James says at last, low. “A dream, I mean. Just a nightmare. Should be used to them by now, Lord knows.” His hands are shaking. Francis reaches over and takes the nearer one, rubs his thumb over James’s knuckles. “I thought I’d lost you,” James chokes out. “And I couldn’t bear it.” He looks down at their joined hands, shakes his head. “I couldn’t bear it, Frank. So having you near has been…a comfort to me. But I shouldn’t have…” He glances up at Francis, then away again. “I’ve made things awkward between us—”</p><p>“James, no,” Francis protests, but James continues, unheeding.</p><p>“—and I’d do anything to repair it. <i>Anything</i>, truly. I…” He clears his throat again. “I need you with me, Frank. I’d be lost without you.”</p><p>Francis looks at James—bent and miserable, staring at him with wounded eyes—and his heart twists in his chest. And, at last, he gives in. Like falling, like sinking into the sea. It’s so easy to lean over, cup James’s cheek with his free hand, and kiss him. As gently and warmly as he’s able. The only answer he can give.</p><p>When he leans back, James turns his head in Francis’s hand, his stubble prickling Francis’s fingers, and presses his lips into Francis’s palm. And then he hooks his fingers into Francis’s open collar, tugs him closer, and kisses him. No uncertainty here: it’s pure James, knowing exactly what he wants and determined to get it. Not unlike being bowled over by a wave; Francis leans into him, happily drowning. Feeling James’s hand slip inside his collar, his fingers tracing a line along Francis’s throat to the corner of his jaw. He gets his hand into James’s hair, and the soft sound James makes against his mouth is better than anything he’s imagined.</p><p>James breaks off the kiss and leans his forehead against Francis’s. He’s still trembling, ever so slightly. Francis squeezes his hand. “Oh, James,” he says, soft. “You know I’ll follow you anywhere.” The ends of the earth. A third season in the pack. Anywhere.</p><p>“Good,” James says, with a flash of a grin. “Because I have no intention of letting you out of my sight ever again.” And then, as though it’s the most natural thing in the world, “You're staying with me forever, Frank.”</p><p>Francis laughs around the lump in his throat. “You’ll tire of me.”</p><p>James’s hand tightens on the back of his neck; he pins Francis with a burning look, dark eyes piercing him through. “Never.”</p><p>He can’t speak, can only pull James to him, wanting him closer still, so close that nothing will ever separate them. James leans into the motion eagerly, 
and they topple backwards; Francis ends up flat on his back with James draped across him. He can’t quite fill his lungs; he clutches helplessly at James, pulling James’s face down to his.</p><p>They lie there, tangled together and trading kisses, until Francis’s back complains. He pushes himself up on one elbow, trying to ease the knot, and James grumbles. “Give me a bit of warning, old—” He breaks off to yawn hugely.</p><p>Francis presses a kiss to his rough cheek. “James?”</p><p>“Yes?” </p><p>“You need to sleep.”</p><p>“I do not,” James protests. “I feel perfectly—” Another, larger yawn, and he glares at Francis like it’s somehow his fault. “Perfectly— Oh, all right, damn you.”</p><p>They rearrange themselves: James nestles against Francis, his head resting at Francis’s collarbone, and drags both of Francis’s arms around him. Francis kisses the top of his head, and feels him smile against his chest.</p><p>“Dear Frank,” James says softly, and that’s the last thing Francis remembers before he falls asleep.<br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <b>IV.</b>
  </p>
</div><br/>Francis’s hand moving slowly through his hair is the first thing that James feels. Steady and gentle, comforting. “Mmm,” he mumbles, happily, and the hand pauses.<p>“Awake, James dear?”</p><p>“Yes. But you can keep doing that.”</p><p>“As you command,” Francis says wryly, and James notes that for future consideration before his mind goes happily empty under Francis’s hand.</p><p>They lie there comfortably for…oh, James doesn’t know how long. Nothing but an occasional murmur to break the peaceful silence. More peaceful even than James had expected, but of course that’s because the gale has finally subsided. The storm is over, so the ships’ boats will be returning, and they can start on observations… He sits up, provoking a surprised noise from Francis.</p><p>“Science, Frank,” James says, by way of explanation. Francis’s frown suggests that may not have been as obvious as he’d thought. He tries again: “Much to be done. And we ought not trespass on the governor’s hospitality any longer.”</p><p>“I suppose not,” Francis sighs.</p><p>It’s not without a certain reluctance that James gets out of bed and collects his jacket and boots. But once he’s finally on his feet—and, having checked his watch, realized how much of the morning has slipped away from them again—the anticipation of the day’s work suffices to shake him out of his former contented torpor. If the observatory has weathered the rest of the storm, the men might even be able to finish it today; they can start taking the other observations even if they’re not ready for the magnetic ones; and it will be a relief to be back on <i>Erebus</i>—</p><p>“Dine on <i>Terror</i> this evening?” Francis asks, as he fumbles with his waistcoat buttons.</p><p>James, still thinking of astronomical observations, says carelessly, “If there’s time.”</p><p>“Of course,” Francis replies, but there’s a false note in his voice, and James, turning, sees a shadow move across his face, just for an instant.</p><p>It’s not a wholly unfamiliar expression, and the sudden context for it cuts James to the quick. He pulls Francis to him by the lapels of his waistcoat, and kisses him thoroughly, as if by doing so he can somehow make up for the years of lost time.</p><p>“Do we understand each other?” he says, once he releases him. The hint of misery has vanished, and the blush high in Francis’s cheeks becomes him very well indeed. James can’t help but smile, feeling a helpless affection fill him. </p><p>“I suppose so,” Francis says, smoothing his waistcoat straight. It’s grown a bit too snug around his stomach, James notes appreciatively. “And if you’re serious about not letting me out of your sight…”</p><p>“I always keep my promises, Frank,” James reminds him, and puts a hand on his shoulder to steer him towards the door.</p>
<hr/><p>Snowdrifts blanket Port Louis; their boots crunch through fresh powder. The sky is a perfect azure, swept clean; a single blue petrel circles far off, over the harbor.</p><p>They walk down through the settlement arm in arm, but once they’re out of sight of the house, James lets go of Francis in order to scoop up a handful of snow and toss it at him. It’s terrible packing snow; the ball disintegrates in his hands and makes a sad little puff against Francis’s overcoat. Francis gives him a distinctly unimpressed look, which lasts until the next, improved snowball catches him on the shoulder and sprays snow in his face. He tries to glare at James, but the corners of his mouth are curling into a grin. “Oh, you’ve done it now, my boy.”</p><p>They make it to the observatory eventually, snow-covered and laughing. James’s face is stinging with the cold; snowflakes cling to Francis’s stubble and are melting against his forehead.</p><p>The observatory’s walls are noticeably aslant, and they creak when James pushes against them, but it’s nothing that can’t be put right with a few hours’ effort. And squinting out at the dazzling brightness of the sound, James can just make out the ships, and the small dark shapes of the boats strung between them and the shore. Another weight lifts from his shoulders.</p><p>“Now there’s a comforting sight,” Francis says from behind him. James reaches back without looking, and Francis takes his hand and pulls him closer.</p><p>The boats will reach them soon enough, and they can get back to work. Hunting parties, observations, repairs and construction: enough to keep them occupied for days. A letter to Anne to finish, once he’s back on <i>Erebus</i>, with news that may not surprise her. And a conversation to be had: later, over supper. But for now it’s just James and Francis side by side, James’s head on Francis’s shoulder, Francis’s arm around James’s waist, the two of them looking out at the sunlight shining off the sound, and their distant ships under a clear sky.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Title from that fertile source of Rossier fic titles, "Ends of the Earth" by Lord Huron. (A playlist, which doesn't actually include that song, <a href="https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6Rvv53U8PnKAR7umbm9LH4?si=MQ6iul8FTJW6g_lXyRaX4g">here</a>.)</p><p><b>Historical notes:</b><br/>Royal Museums Greenwich has views of Port Louis circa <a href="https://collections.rmg.co.uk/collections/objects/101067.html">1835-6</a> and <a href="https://collections.rmg.co.uk/collections/objects/106219.html">1838</a>.</p><p>While the blizzard is an invention, William Cunningham's <a href="https://www.hakluyt.com/downloadable_files/Journal/Campbell_Part2_Journal.pdf">journal</a> mentions  that a gale blew all day on April 10th and consequently no boats went ashore from <i>Terror</i>, so the islands did experience a stretch of unpleasant weather around this time. </p><p>Archibald McMurdo would be invalided home for health reasons later in the year; Robert McCormick described his illness as an "internal complaint," Ross as a "constitutional malady," and both wrote that spending a third year in the Antarctic would probably have killed him. (The change of climate seems to have done him good: he went to sea again in June 1846 as commander of HMS <i>Contest</i>.) <i>Terror</i> was short of officers even before that, having left a lieutenant and a mate at the magnetic observatory in Hobart in 1840 and sent another mate home for health reasons around the same time (see Ross's <i>A Voyage of Discovery and Research in the Southern and Antarctic Regions</i>, 1:124-5, 127). </p><p>The <i><a href="https://www.falklandsbiographies.org/biographies/moody_richard">Dictionary of Falklands Biography</a></i> has a portrait of Richard Moody prior to his appointment as governor in 1841, aged 28. He first arrived in Port Louis in January 1842.</p><p>Thanks to @<a href="https://blasted-heath.tumblr.com/">blasted-heath</a> for pointing out a scar over Ross's right eye in his later portraits/photographs. </p><p>Ross's <a href="https://nla.gov.au/nla.obj-952724599/view">letters</a> to Anne Coulman suggest that he visited her at her aunt and uncle's home at Wadworth Hall in Doncaster in June 1839. </p><p>The book Crozier was reading was Robert Fitzroy's <i>Narrative of the surveying voyages of His Majesty's Ships Adventure and Beagle between the years 1826 and 1836, describing their examination of the southern shores of South America, and the Beagle's circumnavigation of the globe.</i> (1839, available online <a href="http://darwin-online.org.uk/content/frameset?itemID=F10.2&amp;viewtype=text&amp;pageseq=1">here</a>). Fitzroy describes the Falklands in detail, but doesn't have much to say about McCormick, who served briefly as the ship's surgeon before returning to England in 1832. Darwin <a href="https://www.darwinproject.ac.uk/letter/?docId=letters/DCP-LETT-166.xml">described</a> his departure as "no loss" to the voyage.  (He also called McCormick an ass in <a href="https://www.darwinproject.ac.uk/letter/?docId=letters/DCP-LETT-144.xml;query=mccormick;brand=default%22">an earlier letter</a>.)</p><p>James Angelly, quartermaster on <i>Erebus</i>, drowned after falling overboard on April 2nd, four days before the ships arrived at Port Louis.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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